


The View From Up Here

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crime, Injured John, M/M, Murder, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's investigation into a missing woman's disappearance quickly becomes complicated by an old foe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson let himself quietly into his flat, easing the door shut softly behind him. It was silent inside, but not the kind of silence of being empty, although it had that overtone. John had learned to tell the difference. He couldn't hear Sherlock asleep in the bedroom, but he knew his husband had to be there. In part because his coat, shoes and scarf were still there, the coat and scarf hung neatly only because John bothered to do it. That was enough to alert John; even at his worst, or best, John supposed, Sherlock wouldn't fly out of the flat for long without his coat. John had seen him do it a few times, only to come racing back, long legs taking the stairs three at a time, grab his coat and dart back out into London's busy streets. If the coat was still there and the stairs were silent, then Sherlock was home.

John knew Sherlock was sleeping, because his phone had been very precisely positioned on the coffee table next to a full cup of tea. Why the cup had to be full, John had no idea, and hadn't bothered to ask.

After being discharged from the hospital, Sherlock had taken to leaving John some additional sign that he was at home and asleep, usually some personal thing of his on the coffee table. He had taken awhile to settle on the phone and the tea. Presumably he left his phone so that he could sleep undisturbed; John had wondered if perhaps the tea was supposed to be a gesture to the doctor, a welcome, but it was almost invariably cold when John got it.

He usually drank it anyway.

At first, it had been any number of things. A book Sherlock was reading, or may have read, or may have finished, or which may have been John's. The TV remote – that hadn't been particularly helpful. A couple of times, Sherlock had left the telly on, but had given up on that, because he got distracted by the noise, even from the other room. Even if the volume was off. John let that one pass, too. For a few days after being fitted with the walking cast, it had been his crutches, propped against the couch, but the less he used them, the more Sherlock forgot about them.

One day, it had been his wedding ring.

_The sight of it sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty coffee table, gleaming gently in the lamplight, made his blood run cold. John stared at the ring for a long moment, hearing his heart hammering in his ears, feeling the nausea tighten his stomach. The universe, and his heart, contracted in that moment, and he was unable to move, rooted to the spot, all too aware of the silence and emptiness in the flat._

_Then a small sound from the back bedroom, a normal, everyday sound of someone turning over in his sleep, brought him home to the present._

_In one stride, he crossed the living room, scooped up the ring and charged into their bedroom, the door banging against the frame. Sherlock started from sleep, blinking hard, then pushing himself onto his forearms, giving John a bleary and pitiful look._

_John ignored it. Unable to speak, for fear of what might come out of his mouth, he gritted his teeth and held up the ring, glaring. Sherlock looked at him, puzzled a moment, still waking up, then frowned._

" _I was sleeping!" he protested wearily. Even now, there were still faint bruises around his eyes and healing scars on his cheeks and chin._

_John drew another deep breath._

" _You left this?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady, but he could hear how hard it was. Sherlock seemed puzzled._

" _Yes, so you'd know I was here. And not wake me up." The last sentence was delivered pointedly._

" _Sherlock. You left your ring. On the table."_

_The detective gave John one of his special "I'm-trying-to-be-patient-with-you" looks, and nodded._

" _Yes," he repeated. "So you know I was sleeping. Like you said I should."_

_John managed to close his eyes, unsure if he was fighting down laughter or frustration. After a moment, he heard a soft "ah" from his husband._

" _Yeah," John said tersely, opening his eyes again._

" _But I wouldn't leave you!" Sherlock protested. "Why on Earth would you think that?"_

" _What would_ you _think if my wedding ring was on the table when you came home?" John retorted._

_That brought Sherlock up short._

" _It was either you left, or Moriarty left with you," John said quietly. He didn't relish Sherlock's wince at the words, but they needed to be said. Sometimes, he had nightmares that Lestrade was taking him to the morgue following the accident, not the hospital. More often, he had nightmares about what could have happened with Moriarty in the MRI room. He hadn't told Sherlock, but the detective had figured it out after the first couple, if only because he had similar nightmares himself. For nearly a week, John had felt like their flat was a nightly performance of shared and remembered fear, then it began to abate._

_But he wasn't letting himself forget. Moriarty was still out there._

" _Leave something else from now on," John ordered, sitting down on the bed and handing the ring back to Sherlock. He watched as the other man put it back on, then Sherlock lay down again, clasping his hands under his chest, and giving John a woeful look._

" _I'm going back to sleep," he grunted, burying his face in the pillows._

John shucked his coat and scarf and toed off his shoes. He sank down gratefully onto the couch and picked up the tea. It was cold now, which meant Sherlock had been asleep for awhile and may be up soon. It was strange, because John was still used to the overactive Sherlock who could function on six hours of sleep and who darted about the flat, as if stopping or slowing down had never crossed his mind. But he was glad at least that Sherlock took his advice to heart, even if it was because his body just stopped functioning if he tried not to sleep. John was starting to adjust to a husband who cut himself off in mid-prattle to announce that he was going to bed.

At least it was better than the abrupt silences in the hospital when Sherlock had fallen asleep without warning. He was mostly better now, but still needed to stop and rest, which John privately thought was good for him. Maybe it would teach him to slow down.

But probably not.

And anyway, John knew he would miss the old chaos, if it never returned.

He sipped the cold tea, which wasn't entirely unpleasant, because Sherlock had his own ideas about how much sugar tea required and John often thought that it was amazing that other man wasn't the sole source of employment for half the dentists in London. But cold sweet tea was better than cold bitter tea, and he drank it out of some vague sense of marital duty. If Sherlock was leaving it as some sort of loving gesture, then John couldn't bring himself to refuse it.

He checked Sherlock's phone for messages, but there was nothing. John was developing a sense for when Lestrade would reappear in their lives with another case no one could solve. During Sherlock's convalescence, the detective inspector had sent over boxes of cold case files, which had kept the consulting detective occupied between naps and physiotherapy, and which had let John return to work. Occasionally, he spotted a familiar car on the street, which let him work in peace, knowing Mycroft's men were guarding the house.

Often, he tried not to remember that Moriarty had made it unnoticed into the hospital and had captured Sherlock alone, despite Mycroft's people and Lestrade's officers being present. If he thought about it too much, it made him panic, which did no good to his patients at work, and even less to his mental health. He texted Sherlock more now, which his husband tolerated and even reciprocated. In his own way, Sherlock was just as worried about John's safety. It would have been difficult for John to identify that once, but he had experience now. And, he had to admit, Sherlock had gotten better, at least in dealing with him.

Once, just under a year ago, some months after they'd become romantically involved, John had been idly snooping through Sherlock's phone. He knew he shouldn't have been, but he found it fascinating the things Sherlock stored on there. His taste in music was even more bizarre than John would have predicted, and he made a very conscious effort not to listen to his husband's playlists. But he had stumbled upon what looked like a to-do list at first glance, although the information on it was not something most people would jot down.

-Remember to say I love you

-Careful with the left shoulder

-Less sugar in the tea (check on that – can't be right)

-Learn to cook eggs

-Cook breakfast

-Say 'please' and 'thank you'

-Sort post properly

There was also a brief list of John's favourite restaurants and take-away places, as well as a list of foods John didn't like, which he had noticed before that had been disappearing from the flat.

The memory still made him smile, although he had never checked the list again, nor given into the urge to snoop through Sherlock's phone after that. John knew that if Sherlock found out John had discovered the list, he'd be upset, so he kept it to himself. Sherlock wouldn't understand that finding the list alone was worth more than a dozen days of properly sorted mail and came close to an "I love you". It was, in fact, an "I love you", in Sherlock's own way. It was not easy for him, so he often didn't put in the effort and often failed to understand why it would be necessary. When he had found that list, John had known he'd made the right choice.

He wondered, now, if it also included "do not leave ring on table". Certainly, that had never happened since.

Still smiling, he set the phone down and swung his legs onto the couch, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. It had been a routine day at work, but it was nice to be home. The rare times between Sherlock's frenzied cases were cherished.

After a few minutes, John heard the sound of movement from the bedroom and Sherlock came padding out in stocking feet and John's old bathrobe, which the detective had appropriated for himself at some point. John didn't care much; it was so old he could no longer remember when or where he'd gotten it, nor if he'd bought it for himself or received it as a gift. Whenever John washed it, Sherlock made him wear it for a full night, to "get the right smell back", as he said.

"Hello, sleepy," John said wryly as Sherlock sank onto the couch, settling his long body against John's. The detective chuckled, still shaking off sleep, and John smiled, kissing him lightly. He was mostly recovered now; the bruises on his face were gone and the cuts had healed, leaving him with some scars that would fade from pink to white as time went on. The cuts on his head were healed as well, as with his arms, and the bruises everywhere on his body, which had traced seatbelt lines across his chest and pelvis, as well as pointed to broken ribs, had faded away. He still had twinges from the mending ribs, John knew, and was still working on regaining all of the strength in his left leg.

Sherlock regarded John, a small smile playing on his lips. Idly, John ran his fingers through his husband's hair, watching Sherlock watch him. Even now, the younger man seemed intent on memorizing every millimetre of John's face, but John didn't hold that against him. After ten days of being unable to see, he did not begrudge Sherlock the opportunity to enjoy looking at anything.

John wove his fingers into Sherlock's dark hair, resting his hand gently against the back of the other man's head. Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, the smile on his lips twitching and growing. Gently, John kissed him again. Sherlock returned the kiss, settling in closer against his husband. He found John's other hand, twining his fingers with the doctor's, and John could feel the slight coolness and pressure of the gold and bronze wedding band Sherlock wore against his own skin.

"I was going to suggest we eat out tonight," the detective murmured, his breath warm against John's lips. "But now I think we should stay in."

John smiled and caught Sherlock's lips in another kiss.

"Good idea," he replied. "I'm not particularly hungry yet, anyway."

"Well," Sherlock murmured, "We'll just have to see about working up your appetite, won't we?"

* * *

Some time later, they ate ordered-in Indian on the couch, resting against one another. Sherlock was engrossed in a new episode of Doctor Who, his grey eyes intent on the television. John watched with mild interest; it was more entertaining to watch Sherlock watch the show. John loved that Sherlock could get so caught up in something that wasn't work related. It was good to hear him laugh, too, at the corny lines that would otherwise make John roll his eyes. That, and the occasional muttered "brilliant!" from the consulting detective were high praise for the show.

John enjoyed the show more now that he watched it on a regular basis. It was still campy and absurd, but it was meant to be, and it could certainly be worse. Sherlock didn't go in for some of the reality garbage John had endured in Afghanistan. John himself used to enjoy one or two of the American crime drama series, but had stopped watching them very quickly after meeting Sherlock, because of the constant stream of criticism. Suspension of disbelief seemed to be something Sherlock would only apply to Doctor Who.

John finished his curry and put the container on the coffee table, next to the empty tea mug which, what with one thing or another, he hadn't yet put in the sink. He wrapped an arm easily around Sherlock's shoulders and leaned forward a bit. Sherlock glanced at him and gave John a quick kiss before returning his attention to the telly. John could taste the spices from Sherlock's lips.

He cherished these moments, which had an unusual sense of normality, as if they were any other couple in the world, enjoying an evening at home together. John caught himself quickly, as if fate or the universe might be watching.

 _Don't call attention to it!_ he warned himself, focusing on the sensation of Sherlock's warm body resting against his, his eyes tracing Sherlock's profile. _Because_ -

Sherlock's mobile rang.

"I knew it!" John exclaimed. Sherlock shot him a puzzled look. John sighed, waving a hand. "Just answer it."

The consulting detective shook his head and scooped up the phone, answering the call. John sighed, but did not really feel put out. He had been somewhat expecting the call after all, since it had been several days.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted. "What is it?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sergeant Donovan glared at Sherlock when he swept in to the hotel room, John in his wake, but the consulting detective ignored her. Anderson wasn't there, John noted, which meant Sherlock had noticed it instantly, but he didn't comment. John wished they'd all just drop the bad blood nonsense, but it went back to before John had even returned to the UK, and he knew the sergeant, at least, was still angry over comments Sherlock had made about her relationship with Anderson. He wondered if she felt guilty and was taking it out on someone else, or was really and truly offended by Sherlock's opinions. Maybe a bit of both.

She and Anderson had tried hard not to make it easy for Sherlock when he and John had gotten together – and it had driven both police officers batty that Sherlock didn't even notice. The snide comments had passed him by unremarked, and John realized it was because Sherlock truly didn't care. He would have been upset if Lestrade had said anything negative about it, but the detective inspector had merely congratulated them and moved on. John knew Lestrade had actually been relieved that Sherlock had something in his life other than his work.

Then John had had a quiet talk with both Donovan and Anderson and the barbs and attempted baiting had stopped. The doctor had made it clear that he himself wasn't going to put up any of that, and he was one half of the partnership. He'd also suggested, not entirely kindly, that if they wanted to pass judgments on someone's relationship, they should perhaps look at their own first.

It earned him a glare from Donovan every time they saw each other, but John didn't pay much attention. He thought it was sad, in a way, that she was so unhappy, but so unwilling to do anything about it.

To John's now practiced eye, it looked like a CSU team had already swept the place. The lack of other officers in the room was an indication, too; if this had just happened, the hotel would have been swarming with police personnel. Instead, it was just the four of them.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, turning back to Lestrade, hands in the pockets of his dark blue wool overcoat. John stood by the door, scanning carefully, wondering what his partner and husband had already seen.

"Holly Merkley, age thirty-two," Lestrade replied. "Visiting from Manchester. Here for an audition, apparently."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and John rolled his eyes.

"At the Globe, Sherlock," Lestrade said pointedly. "She was last seen yesterday morning, coming back with breakfast. The cleaners found the room like this early yesterday afternoon, just after one."

Sherlock turned away again, scanning the room. It was a mess, John noted; CSU hadn't cleaned anything, but of course they wouldn't. Lamps were tipped off their tables, the standard hotel chairs were overturned, drawers were pulled out and their contents tipped carelessly on the floor. He looked for a laptop or phone and saw none, nor a purse or wallet. On one of the beds, both of which were torn apart, their sheets and blankets in bunches on the floor, Merkley's suitcase lay open, its contents scattered about. A pair of trainers caught John's eye, sitting forlornly on the floor at the end of the bed, as if Merkley herself had dropped them there and forgotten them.

"No scratches on the door or the frame," Sherlock commented. "She let this person in."

Lestrade nodded.

"Looks like they were after something she had," John commented.

"They may have found it," Sherlock said. "No laptop, no phone?"

"No," Lestrade confirmed.

"And no girl," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. At thirty-two, Merkley was only a few years younger than Sherlock himself, and certainly didn't qualify as a "girl".

"No," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock moved further into the room, ignoring them now, and crouched down on the balls of his feet, regarding the two double beds and the carpet. It was as standard a hotel room as John had ever seen, down to the painting above the beds, some Monet rip-off in pale pastels and browns. It was depressing and impersonal, even with the stamp of Merkley's presence and her struggle superimposed on everything.

"Any leads?" John asked quietly. Lestrade sighed and shook his head, which was, after all, why Sherlock was there.

"No, but frankly, John, I'm a bit biased right now. Whenever someone so much as sneezes on the tube, I think it's Moriarty."

John chuckled mirthlessly. He understood that feeling.

"Not really his style, though," he commented, keeping his voice low to prevent Sherlock from being distracted.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.

"Who can say?" he replied. "The man is a psychopath. But no, I don't think this is linked to him. God, for her sake, I hope not."

John nodded, feeling cold at that. He knew what sort of games Moriarty liked to play with his victims – Sherlock still woke up from nightmares about it, and John knew that Moriarty had let Sherlock off relatively easy. Wherever Merkley was, John hoped she wasn't in the clutches of any psychopath, but it didn't really seem that way. He pressed his lips into a line. The fact that the perpetrator had nearly two days lead on them was not a good sign.

"Lestrade," Sherlock's voice, curiously tight, brought John back to the present fast. Lestrade started, taking a step toward the consulting detective, but Sherlock held up a hand and the inspector stopped short. Donovan was still glowering, and John wished she'd just lighten up a touch.

"What?" Lestrade asked. The expression on Sherlock's face concerned John a great deal; usually the consulting detective relished this kind of mental puzzle and he'd be flying high by now, racing through a list of clues no one else had caught, chasing down a theory and with it, a suspect.

"What about the child?" he asked.

John felt his blood go cold.

"What child?" Lestrade demanded. Sherlock stood and pointed to the far side of the bed closest to the window. Lestrade moved toward the younger man carefully and so did John, joined a moment later by Donovan, who was no longer glaring, but looking alarmed.

Beside the bed, near the nightstand, was part of a very small footprint in the carpet.

"Your victim has size 38 shoes, very standard for an adult woman. That is a child's partial footprint," Sherlock said, and his voice was grim. "There was a child in here with Merkley."

John felt himself pale, and watched Lestrade and Donovan do the same. There was nothing else in the room to indicate a child had been there, no clothes, no toys, no books.

"The hotel manager didn't say anything about Merkley having a child with her," Donovan said.

"But the manager didn't check her in, am I right? Have you interviewed the desk clerk who was on duty when she arrived? Reviewed the security tapes?"

"We're tracking down the clerk; she hasn't been in for the past couple of days, and isn't returning calls. We haven't checked the tapes from when Merkley arrived, no. We were focusing on yesterday."

Sherlock nodded, but looked displeased.

"Get me those tapes," he said. "Because it may not have been her this person was after."

* * *

There was Merkley checking in, three days ago, looking composed, sleek and professional. John thought she didn't look like an actress, more like a businesswoman, in her suit and heels. Her long dark hair curled down her back, the only thing about her appearance that seemed unrestrained. But her manner was easy and she was obviously not looking over her shoulder, nor was she apprehensive about the young boy playing at her feet and darting about the lobby as she spoke with the desk clerk.

John watched him in silence, as did everyone else, and felt grim. The boy was no more than two or three, with a head of curly hair like his mother's, only a lighter shade. He was obviously confident and independent, darting to and fro, not clinging to his mother's side. And she didn't seem worried, as long as she could see or hear him. Not a woman who had any sense that someone wanted her, or her child.

Sherlock was watching the boy intently, and John wondered what he was seeing that they didn't. What else could one see from the slightly grainy security footage?

Other than the case was a lot more complicated, and a lot more urgent. Whoever had taken them didn't care that it looked like Merkley was gone, but had gone out of their way to ensure that no trace of the boy remained. It was eerie, and somewhat nauseating, to watch the boy on the screen and wonder where he was now.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Sherlock reached out and clasped one of John's hands in a gesture that was at once both comforting and requesting comfort. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Donovan frown and wanted to ask her what it was like to carry on an affair and be forced to hide her feelings, to have no way to express them when with others. Privately, he thought it would be an exhausting way to live, but it was her choice to do so. He ignored her, and watched Merkley gather up her son after finishing checking in, and walk out of camera range.

Lestrade was already on the phone, his voice low and urgent, speaking to his superiors. Sherlock sat back and stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment, then looked at John. The blank expression on his face wasn't comforting to John, but then the consulting detective pushed himself to his feet.

"Come with me," he said in a tone John knew meant he hadn't even considered that John wouldn't accompany him. "I need to see that room again."


	3. Chapter 3

He put down his phone on the seat beside him as the message sent, then stretched his long legs out, flexing his feet. It felt good to be sitting after a long day of running around.

A sudden light made him look up and the cabbie swore. For a moment, Sherlock felt only surprise, then a stab of shock when the cab swung violently to the left. A flash of headlights blinded him momentarily and he threw his arms over his face instinctively. The cabbie swore again and Sherlock felt the car skidding. The impact snapped him forward, against the seatbelt, and he yelled without intending to. Inertia drove him back then, hard, into the seat, and he heard the sound of breaking glass. A piercing cascade rained down on his head and he yelled again, trying to shield his face. The car was still moving, spinning or something, he could not tell. Something slammed into them again from the side and Sherlock was tossed against his seatbelt again, the air knocked out of his lungs, his head snapping back against the headrest. He could hear blaring horns around him, shattering glass and crumpling metal. Instinctively, he tried to fight with his seatbelt clip, but another impact knocked his hand away. Pain flared in his leg and he tried to cry out, but it came out only as a low moan. He felt the cab impact against something and stop, and the sudden lack of movement made him slump forward.

There was silence. Snow was falling, through the shattered rear windshield, blowing into the cab, covering him.

In the moment before Sherlock opened his eyes, the image of a small boy with curly hair, reaching for him, crying.

He snapped himself awake with a soft gasp. Sherlock half sat up before realizing he'd moved, and the motion woke John beside him, who had been sleeping on his side.

"Mmmm," the doctor groaned, rubbing his face, blinking himself awake in the darkness. "Sherlock?"

"It's all right," Sherlock replied, lying back down.

"Nightmare?" John murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, turning his head to kiss John's forehead. "I'm fine."

John raised his head slightly, eyeing his husband through the darkness.

"Moriarty?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock said. He did not say he was fine after those ones. "The accident. I thought you said I wouldn't remember it."

"I said you might not," John replied. "Post traumatic amnesia is common, but sometimes the memories come back."

Sherlock nodded in the darkness, thinking hard. He had had flashes of memory from the accident previously, but nothing so vivid before. Why now? Something about the boy? He frowned, and John rested one arm lightly on Sherlock's chest. Absently, Sherlock interlaced his fingers with John's, still thinking.

"Need to talk about it?" John murmured. Sherlock blinked, forcing himself to pay attention to his husband. It was amazing how much could go into a conversation with another person, he thought. How important it actually was to pick up the details that were personal. Did other people realize this? They must, because forgetting it often got him into trouble, inexplicably. Other people shouldn't be bothered by what he thought of them. Except for John, of course. And perhaps his brother and parents. And Lestrade. And Mike. But mostly John.

"No, I'm all right," he assured his husband. "Go back to sleep."

"You sure?" John asked, but Sherlock could hear that John was already surrendering to sleep. He nodded, reaching up touch John's cheek gently.

"Yes. You have to work in the morning. But thank you."

Within moments, John was asleep again, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to it. It was so calming – how had he ever functioned before this? How had he slept in the same flat for a year without it? It was an endless puzzle. How was it that out of all the people in London, all the people on the planet, he had found John? And that John loved him? Sherlock knew that even Mycroft found him intolerable and frustrating often, but John didn't seem to. Perhaps it was just that Mycroft was intolerable and frustrating. Or Sherlock was lucky. Was he lucky?

Yes, he decided, opening his eyes and looking at John's vague silhouette in the darkness. He was lucky. He had survived the crash Moriarty had caused and had walked away from it, able to see, able to return to work.

What about the boy?

Why erase him? Someone had gone to great lengths to make it look like there had been no child in that room. By why? Surely the perpetrator would realize there was security footage, that _someone_ had seen the Merkley and her son together. But hiding his presence from the police had worked, had given him almost a day and a half's head start. Sherlock knew that with child abductions, the first twenty-four hours were the most critical. And those had passed before anyone knew there was even a boy who was missing.

Why not kill Merkley and leave her if they just wanted the child? What did this person want with both of them?

Where was the boy's father?

Oh yes, coming in from Dubai. Away on business. Was that convenient, or inconvenient?

" _Certainly right now, John must be fine, since I'm right here, but there's always tomorrow."_

Sherlock repressed a shudder at the memory of Moriarty so casually threatening John. If Merkley's husband wasn't a suspect, then his absence from the country was incredibly inconvenient. Sherlock knew how it felt, to be trapped and wondering if one's spouse was alive and unharmed.

He rubbed his face, feeling sleep creeping back up on him. For a few minutes, he tried to fight it, but he knew it would be fruitless; he had yet to regain total control over his body when it came to needing rest. It was frustrating, because it often meant he had to stop working in order to sleep, but Sherlock knew how far he'd come, and he gave into it because John had advised him to. It was either that, or collapse, which he had done once, when John was at work. He hadn't told his husband, but was not willing to repeat the experience, particularly because he had no inclination to end up back in the hospital.

With a sigh, he let himself drift back to sleep.

* * *

John awoke to a small sound, like a protest without words. He blinked himself awake and raised his head. The bedroom was lighter than it had been the last time he'd woken up; it was almost dawn now. Sherlock was asleep but dreaming; John could see the other man's eyes flickering rapidly beneath his eyelids, and his face was twitching with an unhappy expression. The sound had come from him, he was murmuring unintelligibly, but John knew what was going on. Sleep paralysis was a wonderful thing to keep one from acting out one's dreams fully, but it could also be quite terrifying.

Carefully, John touched Sherlock's face and the younger man jerked. John quelled the urge to wake his husband up quickly; Sherlock would fight it, because he was fighting terror and helplessness in his dream, and John interjecting forcefully would only make it worse. He hated that Moriarty could work his way into their flat like this, into a space that was supposed to be theirs alone, safe and private.

He had been there when Sherlock had told Lestrade and his officers what had passed between him and Moriarty in the MRI room. It still made John sick, that someone could be so offhandedly yet deliberately cruel, and that Sherlock had been captured and subjected to it. It was hard to forget how terrified he'd been afterwards, and how eagerly he'd taken the sedative.

"Sherlock, wake up," he murmured softly, his lips next to his husband's ear. "You're safe. It's John."

Sherlock shook his head mutely, still dreaming, and John stroked his chest gently.

"Wake up," he whispered again. "You're at home. You're safe."

Sherlock awoke with a start, grasping John's hand and staring at him without seeing him for a moment, before awareness and recognition took the place of panic in his grey eyes. He was still for a moment, just staring at John, then let out an abrupt sigh, looking up at the ceiling. John could feel his heart racing and pressed his hand over it, then raised his hand to stroke Sherlock's lips and jaw.

"What time is it?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Six-thirty," John replied, sitting up slightly to check the clock.

"Good," Sherlock said, rolling over and wrapping himself around John, pulling him into a hard kiss. His hands slid under the t-shirt John had worn to bed, tugging it upward. He broke their kiss to pull it off, somewhat roughly, then kissed him again.

"Sherlock, slow down," John murmured, putting a hand on his husband's chest.

"No," Sherlock replied, pinning him in another kiss. John gave up, knowing how difficult it was to reason with Sherlock at the best of times, let alone after a nightmare about the MRI room incident. Instead, he used his hands and lips to re-establish a sense of safety. Sherlock was used to words flowing around him all day, and to generally ignoring their speakers, but John had found – to his pleasant surprise – that Sherlock was a very tactile person and responded well to touch. Even though he always pretended otherwise. It was not information John had ever shared with anyone, even Mycroft. Especially Mycroft.

After a few minutes, John felt Sherlock relax somewhat, although the other man gave no indication of letting him go. John gave an internal shrug and surrendered. He could always find time for breakfast at work.

* * *

If there was an image of hell, Mike Merkley personified it. He was there when Sherlock arrived, having been escorted from Heathrow by some of London's finest, and a quick glance told Sherlock the other man hadn't slept a wink since the time he'd finally been alerted to his wife and son's disappearance.

He was in an interview room, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him, still steaming gently. Sherlock put them at the same age, but right now, Merkley looked older and worn. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin was an ashen grey. He was rubbing his hands together over and over, twisting his gold wedding ring, then raking his fingers through his dark hair.

Sherlock and Donovan glared at each other outside the door, but Lestrade gave them a warning look. The detective inspector beckoned Sherlock over a moment before he went in and Donovan stood back, crossing her arms.

"Do you recognize him from anywhere?" Lestrade asked in a low voice.

Sherlock shot another look at Merkley through the window.

"No. Should I?"

Lestrade sighed.

"I don't know. I was hoping you did."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Do you?"

"He looks familiar, yes," Lestrade said. "But I can't place him."

"He _is_ a prosecutor," Sherlock said, flipping through the file on Holly Merkley and her son, Nicholas. "Being transferred to an EU office here in London, I see."

Lestrade nodded, his expression unhappy.

"Maybe you've seen him in the courts," Sherlock said.

"Maybe," Lestrade agreed, but didn't seem convinced and Sherlock filed that away for future reference. He left the inspector watching Merkley thoughtfully and stepped into the room with Donovan.

"Mister Merkley," he said and the other man looked up, beleaguered and somewhat startled. "I'm Detective Holmes, and this is Sergeant Donovan. We need to ask you some questions."

Sherlock knew Donovan hated when he introduced himself as detective, but didn't care. He was, after all, even if she didn't approve. She didn't approve of anything, so it scarcely mattered.

"Yes, of course," Merkley said. His voice was hoarse with lack of sleep and fear. There was a twinge of Scottish in it; Sherlock put him as coming from Edinburgh, but having not lived there for at least a decade. He opened the file to the pictures of Holly and Nicholas, but kept them from sight of the other man. His alibi was fairly solid; even Sherlock could see no glaring issues with it. After all, he'd been in Dubai for a week. He could hardly have flown back unnoticed. Unless it was an EU conspiracy. Or he'd hired someone to do it, which was always a possibility.

"When was the last time you spoke with your wife?" Donovan asked. Sherlock hated the boring questions, even though they were required.

"Four days ago," Merkley sighed. "She rang before catching the train to the city. I was at a reception, so I only had a few minutes to talk to her. She said she'd call again when she was through with her audition."

"When was that supposed to be?"

"Um, yesterday, I think. What day is it?"

"March twenty-third."

"Then the evening before last," Merkley corrected. "Jet lag. Sorry."

"How did she seem when you spoke to her?"

"Fine, normal."

"She was coming in for an audition," Sherlock said. "She wasn't apprehensive?"

Merkley shook his head.

"No, it was more of a formality. They've been scouting Holly for over a year now, and I've been working on arranging a transfer so I could work here, too. She was excited, because she's been working hard for this. I mean, who wouldn't? She's a Shakespearean actress, working at the Globe." He paused, dropping his head into his hands, his shoulders shuddering. "Who would do this to her? To Nicky? He's just a baby!"

"Is there anyone you can think of who had a problem with her?" Donovan asked gently.

Merkley shook his head.

"No. I mean, other than normal rivalry between actors, but nothing like this. Why would you kidnap a child if you were jealous about a role?"

Sherlock nodded, glancing down at the photos again. Holly Merkley smiled brightly back at him from the glossy photograph. She was dark haired, with blue eyes. Mike Merkley was dark haired as well, with dark eyes. Nicholas had his mother's hair, but in a much paler hue, almost blond, with the same bright blue eyes. It was somewhat incongruous.

"Has she mentioned anything about strange emails or phone calls?"

"No," Merkley sighed. "Nothing."

"Mister Merkley, I have to ask this, it's just formality, but how was your relationship with your wife? Were you having any problems?"

Sherlock forbore comment about that question coming from Donovan. Merkley gave her a hard look.

"Do you mean, was either of us having an affair? No. I certainly wasn't. I can't see her doing that either."

Donovan nodded, jotting something down in her notebook. Sherlock considered the photographs again, pursing his lips.

"Are you Nicholas' biological father?" he asked. Donovan snapped her head up at him, glaring hard, her dark eyes sending clear warning messages at him. Merkley looked shocked at the question, blinking hard, but then shook his head. Donovan switched her attention to the other man quickly, then back to Sherlock.

"No," he said. "But how – how did you know?"

Sherlock put the file on the table and spun it round. Merkley looked blankly down at the pictures, then closed his eyes.

"He doesn't look like you," the consulting detective said.

"Yeah," Merkley said. "He looks like Holly, thankfully."

"Who is his father?" Sherlock pressed.

Merkley held up a hand blankly, as if offering nothing as an answer.

"We don't know," he said. "Sperm donor. I had cancer in my late teens. The chemo left me sterile. We went the anonymous route. As far as Nicky knows, I'm his father."

Sherlock nodded and saw Donovan scribble something furiously in her notebook.

"Can you excuse us a moment, Mister Merkley?" she asked. Wearily, the other man nodded and she stood, leaving the room. After a moment, designed to frustrate her, Sherlock followed. Donovan had stopped down the hall enough that Merkley could not see them from where he was sitting at the interview table, her arms folded, her eyes bright.

"What the hell was that?" she hissed when Sherlock joined her.

"Based on Nicholas' appearance, it's unlikely he's related genetically to Mike Merkley," Sherlock replied calmly. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Do you _know_ how that could have gone?" she snapped. "That isn't the kind of question I want to hear without some lead up! What if Nicholas wasn't a sperm donor baby? You could have ruined a family!"

"You'd know something about that, then," Sherlock commented. Donovan spun her arm round to slap him, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist, his expression dark and warning.

"Hey!" another voice said and they both looked up. Anderson was striding toward them, thunder on his face. "Get your hands off of her!"

Sherlock released Donovan's wrist lightly.

"Perhaps you should warn her not to try and hit me," he replied, his voice tight. Anderson opened his mouth to say something else but Lestrade was there instantly, interjecting himself between them.

"All of you, stand down!" he ordered. "I will not have this bullshit going on when there's a kid missing. If you can't do your jobs, I'll find someone who can!"

"I was doing fine," Sherlock commented lightly.

"Then get the hell back in there," Lestrade ordered. "Donovan, check yourself."

"Yessir," Donovan muttered, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Lestrade strode away, back toward the interview room then stopped short. His abrupt movement caught Sherlock's attention and the consulting detective stepped over. The other man was still sitting his chair, ignoring his coffee, but he had rolled up the sleeves of his light blue dress shirt, pushing them past his elbow.

There was an angry scar on his right forearm, tracing almost all the way from his wrist to elbow, about the width of Sherlock's index finger at his widest. The consulting detective was startled; that was obviously a relatively recent injury, but old enough to have begun to heal.

Lestrade was already opening the door.

"Mister Merkley, sorry to ask, but how did you get that scar?"

Merkley looked startled by the question and glanced at his arm.

"Car accident," he replied.

"About two months ago, judging by how it looks," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," Merkley said, looking surprised. "I wasn't in the accident, though. I got caught up by it on my way back to my hotel and tried to help. I had to punch a window open to try and get into one of the cars. A cab. I was wearing gloves, but the glass tore right through my coat and shirt. Didn't even feel it at the time."

"You were in London?" Lestrade asked carefully.

"Yeah. Why is this important?"

"What was the date?" the inspector pressed.

"January eighteenth. A delivery truck-"

"Lost control and hit two cabs and a car," Sherlock finished, fighting the urge to sink down into a chair. He pulled out his phone and began searching through it as Merkley nodded.

"Yeah, that was it. Of course you'd know," he commented. "Police were everywhere."

"That's why you look familiar," Lestrade muttered and Merkley was startled again. "I saw you trying to get to that cabbie."

"You were there?"

"We both were," Sherlock said. "I was in that accident." Merkley was startled again, looking at Sherlock carefully, but the consulting detective ignored him. "Did you see this man there?"

He held his phone to Merkley who took it and looked at the photo of Moriarty Sherlock had called up. Merkley frowned, then nodded slowly.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember him. He was in the delivery truck, but he seemed okay. He tried to help get the passengers from the back of the cab, but I heard they died." He looked up into the stony faces of both detectives and paused, uncertain. "What's this all about?"


	4. Chapter 4

"So what you're saying is that a raging bloody lunatic is going about London causing traffic pile ups _and now he has my wife and son_?"

Sherlock wondered if that was how John had felt, minus the "wife and son" bit, after the accident.

He left Donovan to sort out what to say to Merkley and pulled Lestrade out of the room, rounding up Anderson as well, not because he wanted to, but because they needed to get their facts straight.

"I don't think that Moriarty has them," Sherlock said without preamble. "It's too inelegant. If he had them, I think we'd still be waiting to find out that they were missing. But we've not got all the pieces. Someone wanted the boy, not the woman. Lestrade, can we get the medical records and find out who Nicholas' biological father is?"

"We can try," Lestrade answered. "But I don't think we have a lot to go on."

"Except that Nicholas was the target. Else why erase him from that room?"

"It could be anyone," Anderson sighed. "Baby snatchers, to sell on the black market. Paedophiles."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Too personal," he said. "If someone wanted only Nicholas, they could have stolen him and left Merkley, or killed her. Something else is going on here."

"Where does Moriarty fit in, though?" Lestrade demanded. "It's no bloody coincidence that Mike Merkley was at the accident and now he's sitting in here."

Sherlock nodded, tapping his thumb against his lips.

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "There's something about Mike Merkley he wants to use, but I don't know what."

Anderson pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Lord, you don't think that psychopath is the sperm donor, do you?"

Sherlock looked startled.

"No," he answered. "Moriarty would never let anything get away from him like that. Also, I'm sure they have standards for not accepting crazy people."

"Rules you out then," Anderson muttered. Lestrade shot him a warning look but Sherlock ignored the comment altogether.

"Merkley's going to work for the EU," Lestrade said. "This could be directed at him. Especially if anyone knows about Nicholas' history. This could be someone trying to get to him." He paused, and sighed. "We need to do some digging. Anderson, get some people and start looking into Holly's background, and Mike's. Whatever we can find. Run it down, no matter how obscure it seems. Find out why we haven't gotten ahold of that hotel clerk yet. Send someone to talk to the people at the Globe who were looking at her for their company. We need to get this kid back, and Holly, too."

Anderson nodded.

"Right, boss," he said grimly and left. Lestrade watched him go for a moment, then turned back to Sherlock.

"We could use your help on this. I know it's the boring stuff-"

Sherlock held up a hand.

"If Moriarty has anything to do with this, then you need me," he said quietly but firmly. "I'm not sure what he wants, not yet, but I'll find it."

Lestrade frowned, scrutinizing Sherlock's face.

"You sure you're up for this, Sherlock?" he asked, dropping his voice low.

"He thinks this is a game," Sherlock replied. "It isn't. Not this."

"None of it is," Lestrade said, his low voice intense for a moment. "Christ, Sherlock, the crash was not a game. I know you don't remember much from it, but I do. And we have a man in there who punched out a window to save someone, and now his life is upside down."

"I remember enough," Sherlock said.

"I know you do. Can you do this?"

Sherlock met his gaze levelly.

"Yes," he replied.

Lestrade looked relieved.

"Good. Get the CSU files from the crime scene, and see what you can spot that we haven't yet."

"And you?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to see what I can do about finding out about Nicholas' biological father. But don't hold your breath."

* * *

John was glad it was Friday. The clinic always closed earlier on Fridays and he had the following day off. They were open every other Saturday, but because the doctors rotated the Saturday shifts, he only had to work on weekend a month, which suited him fine. After Afghanistan, it seemed luxurious to not be on call all of the time, not be waiting for the other shoe to drop and a mess of casualties to be rushed in.

Not that he supposed it would be a restful weekend – John was long unfamiliar with that concept. He thought the last time he could count on down time at the end of the week had been shortly after he'd been shipped back to England, and had been in the hospital himself. Once he'd moved to London, into the Baker Street flat, he'd bidden _adieu_ to any semblance of a normal life.

Not that he'd trade it for the world, he thought. Well, not most of it.

This weekend, he knew he would be doing what he could to help with the Merkley case, not that he suspected it would be very much on his part. But Sherlock seemed to like having him around nevertheless, and John thought he'd made a valuable contribution on occasion. He repressed a grimace; if they found Merkley and her son, they may be in need of a doctor, too.

John checked the front office and waiting room, but the receptionist and all the patients had gone, since it was now after three. He said good night to the other doctor, a Dutch transplant who had been working in the UK so long that she'd completely lost her accent and John had been surprised to find out she wasn't British. He had left his old clinic shortly after he and Sarah had split, and was glad, because neither of them needed to face each other with the knowledge that John was now married to Sherlock. He had been relieved when she'd ended things, although he hadn't said as much to her, and not because he had been giving any thought to falling in love with his flatmate at the time. More because he knew Sarah wanted security and he, John, wanted adventure. That was part of what was so appealing about Sherlock.

He made his way back to their storeroom and poked his head in. One of their nurses, a young man named Karl, was still there, clipboard in hand, eyeing the shelves critically. He looked up when John rapped lightly on the doorframe.

"Need a hand?" John asked.

"No, I've got it," Karl replied, nodding. "Just making sure we're okay for tomorrow. You should take off."

John nodded.

"Thanks. I will. Have a good weekend."

"And you," Karl replied. Privately John thought it was unlikely, but he kept that to himself. Walking back to his own office, he cast an eye out of the window in the corridor. They were on the second floor here, but he could see down to the street and expertly spotted the car parked across the way and the figures who had been loitering about most of the day.

It had not been pleasant to find out from Sherlock that Holly Merkley's husband had been at the scene of the accident and that he had seen Moriarty. John almost wished his husband had kept the news to himself until John had been finished with work – it had taken a considerable amount of effort, hard won through years of combat service, to keep focused after that. But he couldn't have explained that to Sherlock, who needed him to know, and Mycroft's people had shown up right around the time he'd gotten that call.

With a sigh, John stepped into his office and shut the door. He blinked in the sun that streamed through the window and started to shrug his lab coat off when someone grabbed him from behind.

Instinct kicked in and John fought back – he was no amateur when it came to this, but whoever had him was better. A hand over his mouth and nose cut off his air and John struggled not to panic. He tried to scream when a second hand dug into his left shoulder hard, fingertips pressing into the scar tissue. His vision swam and John felt the hand that was covering his mouth snap his head back, connecting it neatly with the doorframe. He heard a crack and his knees buckled. The person behind him caught him neatly, freeing his mouth, one arm wrapping across his chest, under his shoulders. He took John's weight, but kept his other hand pressed firmly on the doctor's old injury. John tried to yell, but it was a struggle just to breathe against the pain.

He was lowered to the floor, propped carelessly against the wall, and the hand was returned to his mouth. Fighting the black spots in his vision, John bit down, but instead of anger, he heard only laughter.

"A good try, Doctor," a smooth voice said. "But predictable, and not all that effective. Sorry about the head, but I can't have you fighting me."

John blinked, struggling to see Moriarty in front of him, trying to remember the car and agents downstairs on the sidewalk. Karl was in the storeroom – had he heard anything? He moved his right arm, but Moriarty was quickly, straddling his chest easily so that John was pinned, his right arm wedged under the other man's knee. In all that time, he hadn't let up his grip on John's shoulder. The doctor felt his body slipping toward unconsciousness and fought it hard, using all the strength he normally didn't have to call on anymore.

The pain in his shoulder was unbearable, though. He could feel Moriarty's fingers slipping around under his collarbone and he arched his head back, trying to hiss behind the hand covering his mouth.

"Focus, John," Moriarty said calmly, as if exerting no effort keeping John pinned. For a slight man, he was deceptively strong and quick. "I'm not happy with the way things are going. It's really been too long since we've seen each other, hasn't it? I'm terribly sorry I didn't come visit while Sherlock was in the hospital, but you know how it is. I had so little time to speak to him as it was."

John strained to make sense of the other man's words and to keep breathing properly. Moriarty dug his fingers in to the old wound deep and John arched, or tried to, but could not move under the other man's weight. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against tears and the threatening blackness.

"It's so inconvenient for me that Sherlock regained his sight, you know," Moriarty said, as if he was truly upset about this. "At the same time, I find myself almost glad to have him back. Life would have been so dull otherwise, yes? Such a strange sensation, having mixed feelings like this. But it keeps one on one's toes, and that shouldn't go unappreciated."

He grinned, his face swimming in John's vision. The knock on the head hadn't helped, but it was the incessant grip that was shredding any attempt he made at concentration. Moriarty leaned down, redoubling his grip, and John whimpered, hating himself for it.

"I knew he couldn't resist coming back to the game. Do tell him I said hello, will you? I so much look forward to seeing him again. And I apologize for this, really, it seems so crude, but one does what one must."

He snapped John's head against the wall again and the doctor grunted, his vision fading to black a moment before a new flare of white pain tore through his shoulder. A moment later, the pressure was gone and John was gasping. He tried to move and everything went dark for a moment. It took longer to pull himself back to awareness this time and when he came to, he was alone in his office, crumpled on the floor.

Gritting his teeth, John tried to push himself to sitting, but the movement caused his shoulder to spasm and he fell back, breathing hard. How long had he been out? No more than a minute, he estimated, because it was still broad daylight and he could still think. Somewhat.

Breathing hard against the pain and what he was certain was a new soft tissue injury, John cradled his left arm against his chest. White and black spots danced in front of his eyes and his consciousness threatened him again but he bit his lip and flattened his back against the wall. Slowly, he pushed himself up until he was level with the doorknob. Clenching his teeth, he reached over his chest with his right arm and pulled the door open, but didn't have the leverage to swing it wide.

_Dammit!_ John thought. He let his arm drop back, taking a few deep breaths, trying to re-center himself through the haze of pain and dizziness from the concussions. Balancing carefully, he caught the door with his toe and kicked it with his remaining strength. It bounced against the wall, making a loud bang and a moment later, he heard his name being called from down the hallway. John could only nod, breathing hard, sliding back down to the floor.

He heard his name again, then running footsteps when he didn't answer. A moment later, Karl was crouched in front of him, brown eyes wide and panicked.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed. "John, what the hell happened?"

John shook his head and Karl looked more alarmed, if that were possible. The nurse braced himself over the doctor and wrapped his arms around John, easing him up from the floor. John yelled and Karl nearly dropped him, managing to rest him more or less against the wall at the last second.

"Left shoulder," John hissed.

"Lord," Karl replied, glancing around.

"My phone," John managed. "On my desk. Call Mycroft."

To his credit, Karl didn't ask who Mycroft was, but eased John all the way to the floor so that he was lying on his back, his knees bent. Carefully, the nurse moved John's left arm back to his chest, the doctor hissing and groaning as he did so. Then the nurse moved away and John fought to keep himself awake, knowing that unconsciousness was a bad option with a head injury. Karl's voice helped give him something to ground him.

"Hello? This is Karl Schellenberg, I work with John Watson. I think he's been attacked. What? No, I don't know. Yes, he is. I need some help. What? _What?_ Okay, good."

The conversation stopped abruptly and Karl reappeared in John's limited and hazy field of vision.

"I don't know who you know, John, but it's bloody creepy, let me tell you. He said someone is outside and will be up immediately. This is going to hurt, but I need to get your shirt off and have a look at your shoulder. Stay with me, right?"

John nodded, biting his lip. Efficiently and quickly, but with no small amount of pain for the doctor, Karl eased John out of his lab coat and then his dress shirt. The look on the younger man's face was enough for John to realize how bad it was and he felt his eyes flutter.

"No, no you don't," Karl said, smacking John's cheek. "Stay with me." Sounds from the hallway made him look up, startled and wary. John heard someone – more than one person by the sound of it – come in.

"Are you this Mycroft's people?" the nurse demanded and got an affirmative reply. "Good. Help me with him right now. I need to get him onto a bed so I can check him out. You. Grab his legs. No, at the knees. Right. You, his right shoulder, no, under the arm, carefully." John felt Karl lift his left shoulder carefully and groaned. "Sorry, John, but we have to do this. It'll be over quick. Stay with us, or I promise, I will kick your ass myself. Ready? One, two, lift."


	5. Chapter 5

"Here," Sherlock said, as Lestrade leaned over his shoulder. "I've cross-referenced missing persons records for the last four days for the whole of southern England. Nicholas Merkley is the missing only child in that time for whom the police don't have a suspect narrowed down. And he and his mother are the only ones in which more than one family member were reported missing in that time period. There are a number of teenage runaways and some young women, but also a few men."

"Request files on them from whatever department has those cases," Lestrade ordered. "The women, too. Anderson, what is it?" Both Lestrade and Sherlock looked up when Anderson strode in.

"We found the clerk who checked Holly Merkley in; she was up in Bristol visiting family for the week, turned her phone off, forgot to check it, etc. I've got someone talking to her now, but it looks she didn't notice anything odd. I pulled Mike Merkley's EU contacts and we're running through them, but so far, nothing. Too much to hope for any ransom calls?"

"So far," Lestrade said grimly. "We've got Mike's phone and the Manchester PD has a tap set up on his home phone, but nothing yet."

Anderson nodded tersely. The mood was tense, more so than normal, and even Sherlock could sense it. The pressure was starting to come in from higher up, he knew, as Mike Merkley's EU connections became aware of the situation and wanted results. Lestrade had been calling people in from days off or putting them on double shifts, but they had only run into walls.

It had been over forty-eight hours now since anyone had seen Merkley or her son, and all of them knew that boded very poorly for the victims. No one had come out and said as much, even Sherlock, and the prevailing unspoken opinion seemed to be that if it did not get said out loud, it may not yet be true.

Sherlock knew he was not the only one now wondering where their bodies were.

Behind Sherlock, Donovan thanked someone and hung up the phone. The click of the receiver against the set was sharp, displeased.

"That was the manager of the company Merkley was going to work for at the Globe. They'd delayed the audition by a day, because of some minor family emergency, so they hadn't been expecting her on the twentieth. He said she was fine when he spoke to her the morning of the twentieth, and didn't mention anything out of the ordinary."

"We need to find out if she had recent contact with anyone else there," Lestrade said. "Get the phone records for anyone working the last four days and dump them. I want to know every single call they made and why they made it."

There was nothing unusual on Merkley's phone, and no activity on it since the morning of her disappearance. All hope of tracking her via its GPS signal had been dashed; it was off, and had not been turned back on. Whoever had her was not about to give away their position so easily. The hotel had likewise received no calls that could not be explained; Lestrade had a team of people who had chased down all the incoming phone traffic during the past four days to the hotel, but no one had actually called Merkley's room. All her calls had been made to or from her mobile. Several officers were tracking all the hotel's outgoing calls, too, but it seemed like a long shot that anything would be flagged.

Lestrade straightened, moving away from the computer at which Sherlock had stationed himself. The consulting detective frowned, scanning through what was available to them on the recent missing persons cases in nearby jurisdictions. It was frustratingly scant. There seemed to be no pattern, nothing that suggested to him who had taken Merkley and her son. His search of the CSU reports had likewise come up empty-handed, nor had he found anything at the hotel the second time he'd gone back, after reviewing the security tapes the night before. Lestrade had a tech going through all the tapes since Merkley had checked in, but so far, all of the guests and their visitors were accounted for and no one unexplained had appeared in the hotel.

"Anderson, track down Constable Waters and get him to get ahold of his paramedic friend who was at the crash in January. We need to find as many people as we can who had contact with James Moriarty."

"Right," Anderson agreed and left again, pulling out his phone as he did so.

"Any movement getting Holly Merkley's medical records?" Sherlock asked.

"Not those ones," Lestrade said. "I checked into it and got an earful – there's no way we can access confidential medical information like that without good reason."

"This _is_ good reason," Sherlock replied.

"Not without proving that the biological father had something to do with it," Lestrade sighed. "Otherwise, we're invading his privacy."

Sherlock gave a derisive grunt.

"Unless he's involved, and then we're risking a child's life."

"I know," Lestrade muttered. "But how would he find out?"

Sherlock smacked the desk suddenly, startling Lestrade and Donovan.

"That's our connection!" he exclaimed. He pushed himself to his feet, grey eyes suddenly bright. "To Moriarty! You're right, this kind of information isn't easily obtained. Otherwise, it wouldn't be anonymous. But it could be uncovered, if one knew how."

"But _why_?" Lestrade asked. "What's he got to do with these people?"

"That remains the question," Sherlock said. "I–" He cut himself off when his phone chimed and pulled it from his pocket. A text from John lit up the screen.

_Sorry for the interruption. The view from up here is fascinating. Such wonderful lighting._

Sherlock frowned at the phone.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked. The consulting detective shook his head.

"Text from John," he replied. He checked the time; his husband would be leaving work, but it was the middle of the afternoon. Certainly, the view from John's office was pleasant, and he'd mentioned catching some vivid sunsets in the winter, when the days were shorter, but not now.

"Anything important?" Lestrade asked.

"No," Sherlock murmured. "Just–"

"Detective Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up quickly, and Lestrade turned, as did Donovan, who was back on the phone. She said something quietly and covered the mouthpiece. A young man of Pakistani descent had hurried in, striding past the other officers and detectives, some of whom looked surprised by the interruption. He seemed to know exactly where to go and for whom he was looking.

"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning slightly, trying to place the man.

"You need to come with me, please, sir. Your brother sent me. It's about John Watson."

* * *

Donovan was off the phone immediately, rising out of her seat. Lestrade held up a hand to her and she froze.

"What do you mean?" the inspector demanded, eyeing Sherlock carefully. The other man hadn't moved, but the expression on his face was enough to let Lestrade know he'd figured it out.

"He was attacked in his office," the younger man confirmed. "He's all right, but I need to take you over there now. Inspector, if you could spare some officers, we could use the help sweeping the building."

"Yes, of course. Sherlock, go. Now."

Sherlock snapped his grey-eyed gaze to Lestrade.

"He's doing this to get me out of here. To slow us down."

Lestrade nodded; he knew that, but he also knew how to judge someone's limits – being a detective for over a decade had honed already sharp instincts. Moriarty thought this was a game and that Sherlock was the opponent. The rest of them, to him, were background noise. Whatever he was doing, whoever else he was involving, it was all directed at getting to Sherlock. He had made that abundantly clear from the beginning.

It was a terrifying thought that someone like that was loose out there, and more terrifying when Lestrade imagined that it could so easily be Sherlock, if the other man had ever had the inclination to just let go. When Sherlock had met John, Lestrade had begun to breathe a bit easier, and then even more so after they'd become a couple. In his experience, people with something to hold onto didn't let go without good reason.

He was not about to give Sherlock that reason.

"We'll keep working on it," he said. "Go. I will send some squad cars right now."

Mycroft's man nodded a curt thanks and Sherlock grabbed his coat, nodding briefly to Lestrade on the way by. He followed the younger man out of the police station and into the waiting black car. Sherlock was not at all surprised when the young man shut the door behind him, not getting in himself.

Mycroft was waiting for him, half shadowed in the filtered light that came in through tinted windows. No sooner had Sherlock buckled himself in than the car pulled into traffic smoothly.

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded. He held onto anger to cover fear, wondering if this was how John had felt being taken to the hospital following the accident.

"He was attacked in his office. Moriarty. He's conscious though. I don't have many details – apparently the nurse who was working there has turned my men into medics."

"You were supposed to be watching him," Sherlock said shortly, wondering how long his temper would hold.

"We were," Mycroft confirmed. "But only after you called us. Moriarty could have been in there all day and gone unnoticed."

Sherlock stared at his brother, then gave a disgusted sigh and turned his eyes to the buildings zipping by outside the window. He tapped his lips with his index finger irritably, the other hand jiggling his phone.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded abruptly.

"Doing what?" Mycroft sighed.

"This," Sherlock said, gesturing to the car, as if it would encompass his frustrations. "You watch me and John when it's convenient for you. You think it helps, but Moriarty keeps slipping by you, because it's a game to him, and he enjoys finding out if he can. Meanwhile, John and I get no privacy from you. I do not need this."

"I'm your brother," Mycroft said in an infuriatingly patient, and what Sherlock considered to be overbearing, tone.

"And I am no longer five," Sherlock snapped. "I'm tired of looking over my shoulder not because of James Moriarty, but because of you. You think I need this, and perhaps you were right once, but not now. We do not live in Victorian times, Mycroft. I do _not_ need you to chaperone my relationship with my husband. This is my life, do you understand? This is not what I need from you."

Mycroft gave him a long look that Sherlock returned with a hard glare.

"What do you need from me, then?" his brother asked after a moment.

Sherlock thumbed his phone back on and called up the records he'd uploaded for Holly Merkley's case.

"Get me access to her fertility treatment information. Find out who the sperm donor they used was. It may save a young boy's life."

Mycroft took the phone as they pulled up in front of the office building in which John's clinic was housed. Sherlock opened the door almost before the car was stopped.

"Do not follow me in," he warned and stepped out, not bothering to check over his shoulder to see if his order would be obeyed. He had little faith his brother would truly leave him be, but he would confront it fully later on. Things needed to change, but first he needed to get to John.

* * *

In the end, they'd taken John back to the Yard and put him in the barracks. Sherlock was certain he'd before never seen the side of John that came out at the mention of going to the hospital – he was used to John being quiet and firm, but not this obstinate. If they hadn't relented, Sherlock was almost positive John would have walked out on his own to hail a cab.

"There's nothing broken," he hissed through clenched teeth against the pain. His shoulder was a mess of bruises, all slightly larger than fingertip-sized but growing, starting to blend together. The nurse, Karl, had expertly wrapped it up and settled it into a sling, for which Sherlock was glad. Looking at the blue and purple welts was nauseating. "Waste of time."

"Yours or mine?" Sherlock had asked.

John had met his eyes squarely, despite the glassiness of his gaze.

"Find them," he had ordered.

Against his wishes, the nurse had given him morphine. They had a small emergency supply in their storeroom. John had fought that, too, but Sherlock had enough experience arguing with his husband that he was able to win this one. Was there some template stamped into the behaviour of all doctors that they made such horrible patients?

"You won't like me on morphine," John had warned.

"I'd like you best in the hospital now, so consider this a compromise," Sherlock had said darkly. It was difficult to know how to feel: afraid or angry or frustrated or amused. Perhaps all of them, which was exhausting.

The nurse was unhappy; he wasn't a doctor, he kept reiterating, and John kept point out that he himself was. Sherlock had the sense they'd been having this argument the entire time.

They had a wheelchair that Karl dug out of the storm room, covered in dust. He filled a bag with all of the snap gel cold packs he could find, as well as some codeine, for when the morphine wore off, with strict instructions to keep it away from John's reach and on how to administer it.

"He's in shock right now, so he's not feeling much," the nurse warned. "This is going to hurt. He needs a hospital, as soon as you can convince him."

"If not before," Sherlock had murmured, accepting the supplies.

They rode to Scotland Yard in one of Mycroft's cars, with only the driver, John's head cradled carefully in Sherlock's lap, the detective stroking the doctor's hair gently. Each bump made John wince, despite the shock and the opiates.

Lestrade was not pleased to see them, but didn't protest, after a pointed look from Sherlock. The consulting detective did not want John wasting his energy on objections right now, particularly since it wouldn't get the police anywhere. Lestrade relented, helping him settle John into the barracks, which were currently unoccupied. When they'd gotten him into a bunk, Lestrade had left, promising to send someone to keep an eye on John in a few minutes.

Sherlock flipped on the lights, which were kept on a low setting even when they were on, and broke one of the cold gel packs, settling it against John's shoulder. The doctor watched him through eyes that were glassy now from the morphine, not the shock.

"You need to try not to move," he said. John nodded. The door opened and a young officer with dark hair and green eyes came in. His colouring was startling, Sherlock thought, especially in the dim light, which made his green eyes seem to gleam.

"I'm Constable Sam Waters," he said. "The DI sent me to keep an eye on things. Do you need anything?"

"Not right now," John said, his voice thick.

"He needs to rest," Sherlock said pointedly, but the statement was directed at John, not at the young constable. Sam nodded.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. I have some ends to tie up first."

Sherlock nodded and the younger man left. The detective's eyes followed him out and then switched back to John when the door had shut softly.

To his surprise, John began to laugh.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded.

"Did you-?" John said, raising his right hand and pressing it over his eyes. "You just – Sherlock, you just checked him out!" He sniggered, trying to sit up, then fell back, gasping. "Ow, ow, ow, damn!"

"Lie still!" Sherlock ordered, putting a hand on his husband's chest. "And I did not!"

John nodded, still chuckling.

"You did! You absolutely did!" he said with what Sherlock considered to be altogether too much glee, especially given the situation. John collapsed into laughter, then rubbed his face with his right hand. "Lord, I'm high in the middle of a police station. I _told_ you I didn't want morphine!"

"Better high here than anywhere else," Sherlock sighed.

"Now I know why you like this job so much," John sniggered and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You need to rest, now," he said firmly, standing and pulling the blankets up to John's shoulders, and settling them over him carefully, ignoring the smirk that played on John's lips.

"Wait," John said, dislodging his blankets and catching Sherlock's hand with his good one. "Sherlock, you're not going to leave me, are you?"

Sherlock paused, then crouched down again.

"I have to go, John," he said. "We need to find Merkley and her son."

John shook his head.

"No, I mean, for good. In November, you said that you'd observed that relationships cause weakness and that Moriarty would try and use me as leverage against you. That's what he did. He was buying time. Trying to distract you."

Sherlock pressed the palm of John's hand to his lips and shook his head.

"And _you_ asked me if I was going to let Moriarty dictate the terms of my life, and I said no." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to John's in a soft kiss, taking care to let absolutely none of his weight rest against the doctor. Then he smoothed a hand over John's hair, shaking his head again. "John, you are not my weakness. You are my strength."

John looked shocked behind the drugs and Sherlock kissed him again, lightly.

"I love you," the detective said simply.

John managed a smile, a real smile, not a smirk this time, and nodded.

"I love you, too. Go find them."

Sherlock pressed a kiss against John's forehead and stood, turning off the lights as he left. He passed Sam Waters on the way back in but ignored the younger man – he really didn't need John passing into another laughing fit and he'd been right, damn him; Sam _was_ moderately attractive.

Sherlock headed back toward their work area, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he did so to check for messages from Mycroft. The last thing he'd received was the strange text from John's phone – but obviously not from John. He paused in mid-stride, stepping toward the wall to clear the corridor, and reread it, then picked up his pace.

"Lestrade," he said, hurrying toward the DI, who was talking to Donovan and another policewoman Sherlock didn't know. The inspector looked up, as did the two women, when Sherlock walked in. "Did we check the theater?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Yes, of course."

"Did we check the roof?"

Lestrade hesitated, casting a glance a Donovan, who shook her head once, uncertain.

"Let's go," Sherlock said.


	6. Chapter 6

Most of the space was open to the sky, of course, and the actual roof was inaccessible, since it was recreated thatch, but there were any number of nooks and crannies tucked away near the ceilings in areas where tour groups didn't go, because they were of no interest, or which were out of bounds due to the risk, such as the maze of catwalks that crisscrossed over the stage. Sherlock suspected the theatre hadn't been searched very thoroughly; after all, no one had seen Merkley enter the Globe, and she had not been able to show up for audition.

There were no performances in March, although rehearsals were underway, and the theatre remained open for tours year round. Scotland Yard had descended on the place, but it was taking time to round up all of the tourists and get them out, and there was excitement as to what was happening. The dogs wouldn't be able to work with the crowds, and Sherlock eyed one of them which was straining on its lead, looking eager to begin.

"We don't have time for this," he said in a low voice to Lestrade, who was watching the clearance of the building impatiently. The inspector nodded, looking displeased. Sherlock knew Lestrade was not enjoying this in the least; this sort of crowd control was not supposed to be his purview. As if reading the consulting detective's mind, Lestrade cornered a high-ranking uniformed officer and made him take over the direction of the crowds.

"Come with me," he said, shouldering past the throngs and into the theatre proper. There were staff milling about still, and Lestrade waylaid one of them.

"Take us – where, Sherlock?"

"The stage," the detective replied. Lestrade flashed his badge and the young man nodded, eyes wide. He led them into an out-of-bounds corridor that was mercifully free of tourists and Sherlock took the time to pause and inhale. He could smell the Thames; the tide was coming in at the moment, and he could smell the inspector's cologne and the young man's aftershave. It was cheap and strong, but Sherlock doubted that it would overpower the scent of a corpse, if they came across one.

They hurried down the corridor and into the backstage area. The stage lights were off and it was dim. Sherlock squinted into the eaves.

"How do we get up there?" he demanded.

The young man looked startled and had to think for a moment, but then beckoned them to a back stair. He started to climb, but Lestrade stopped him with a hand on the arm and a shake of his head.

"No, stay down here," the detective inspector said. "Go get some lights turned on for us, so we can see, as much as possible."

With a gulp, the young man nodded and hurried off.

"Here," Lestrade said, passing Sherlock a torch. The younger detective took it and switched it on, shining it up the spiralling metal staircase. It was dusty with lack of use and faded into the gloom above their heads.

He began to climb, keeping a steady pace, ignoring the twinges in his lower left leg that told him he was low on sleep and had been demanding too much of his body that day. It was inconsequential, he told himself, when a life may still be at stake. He remembered John groaning as Karl the nurse had bandaged his shoulder and used that as a new resolve. If it could be avoided, he would not let Moriarty rob another man of his spouse. Or his child.

They climbed upward, torches cutting swathes of light into the darkness, dancing off of the black metal stairs and illuminating nothing. Dust floated through the beams as the stairs creaked and shifted slightly beneath them. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the banister to take some of the weight from his leg but ignored the discomfort, keeping his eyes trained for some indication that the shadows held a body.

The stage lights came on suddenly below them and Sherlock locked down. Of course, they were not set for any particular scene, but flooded the whole of the stage. He nodded, speeding up his pace until they reached the catwalks.

"We need the dogs," Lestrade hissed, somewhat out of breath.

"No," Sherlock replied. "We look for the place with the best view and illumination."

"What?"

"The text he sent from John's phone. It had nothing to with John's office. He was pointing us here."

"Why kidnap her and then reveal her location?"

"Because he isn't the one who took her," Sherlock said, walking carefully across the catwalk, eyes focused on the stage below. "He wants us to find her. It's part of his game."

"And have you figured out what that is yet?" Lestrade asked, a twinge of sarcasm in his voice.

"Still working on it," the consulting detective replied. "Stop."

He held up a hand, peering over the railing at the stage below, and Lestrade stopped behind him. They were not center stage, but still somewhat stage right. Sherlock leaned forward somewhat, narrowing his eyes and focusing on the audience pit below. It was a good view of that, too, so that someone up here could conceivably watch a play and the audience at the same time, although the angle down to the stage was rather direct.

He raised his torch above him and turned slowly, scanning the beams. There were ropes and pulleys everywhere – he supposed stagehands and whatnot would know what they were for, but right now, they were mostly in his way, casting unnecessary shadows. Lestrade was following his lead, but moving opposite to him.

"There," Sherlock said and Lestrade turned. He pointed to a small platform closer to the ceiling, which looked unused. A small walkway led under it, but didn't intersect with where they stood. Sherlock judged the distance quickly and then passed his torch to Lestrade.

"Hold the light steady," he said and gripped the railing.

"What the hell – Sherlock, dammit, wait until we get some equipment!"

"We may not have time for waiting," Sherlock replied. "I can reach, I'm tall enough."

"John will bloody kill me if you fall!" the inspector said.

"Then I won't fall," the younger man replied calmly. "Don't distract me." He swung himself over the railing effortlessly – heights had never bothered him – and balanced himself with care before reaching out and over. The distance required a stretch, but he pulled himself over fairly easily and heard Lestrade curse with feeling behind him. Sherlock ignored him, settling himself on the new catwalk and reaching up to grasp the edge of the small platform. He took another deep breath but smelled nothing but dust and old wood. With a soft grunt, he pulled himself up and peered into the blackness.

"Light!" he snapped and the beam momentarily blinded him. "Higher."

The light skittered over the old shadows but he could see immediately that the dust was disturbed. Lestrade's torch light outlined the figure of a woman on her side, her face hidden by a cascade of dark hair.

"She's here!" Sherlock tossed over his shoulder and then he hauled himself onto the platform, crawling over to her. The skin on her neck was cold when he touched it, but a pulse was beating under his fingers, slowly, but there.

"She's alive!" he called out. "And she can't have been up here more than eight or nine hours."

He could hear Lestrade talking into his walkie-talkie but ignored it, focusing on the unconscious woman. Sherlock assessed Merkley quickly; she was dressed against the spring chill, so whoever had placed her here hadn't wanted her entirely exposed to the elements. She was wearing gloves as well, but her head wasn't covered and that was a problem. The temperature of her skin and the slow beat of her pulse concerned him, but there was nothing else he could do in the poor lighting and cramped space.

He pulled himself back to the edge and Lestrade moved the torch beam a bit so it was not shining directly in his eyes.

"She's not bleeding as far as I can see," Sherlock said.

"Get the hell down from there," Lestrade replied. "I have medics on the way up."

Carefully, Sherlock eased himself back to the catwalk and back across, Lestrade holding the light steady the whole time but glaring. When Sherlock was back across, the inspector shook one of the torches at him threateningly.

"If you ever-"

"The boy isn't there," Sherlock said, cutting through the nonsense. "I was right; this isn't about her. It's the same as John. This is to distract us."

From below them came the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and the catwalk swayed gently.

"We'll get her out of here," Lestrade said. "And maybe she can help us with that."

* * *

The paramedics and an urban search and rescue team displaced them but Sherlock and Lestrade took up a position on the stage, watching the process of Merkley's retrieval. Spotlights were set up and beamed up into the airy, dusty space that had so recently held both detectives, but it was difficult to see what was going on past all of the equipment and personnel.

The buzz of his phone distracted Sherlock and he fished it out his pocket. Mycroft's name lit up the screen and Sherlock opened the message quickly. It was an identification file for an Oxford professor of biochemistry, Daniel Goodnow. The picture of a smiling blond haired, brown-eyed man near forty shocked him.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, looking up as the DI met his gaze. He passed over the phone and inspector took it, glancing at the file, then back at him.

"Nicholas Merkley's biological father," Sherlock said and Lestrade handed the phone back.

"I don't want to know," the inspector said.

"I think you do," Sherlock replied. "He's also one of the missing persons whose records I requested."

* * *

"No, he'll be here in the city!" Sherlock insisted for the fourth time. He was more than tired of this; Oxford PD had confirmed that Daniel Goodnow had been reported missing four days previous, but may have been gone longer.

It had not been a good evening.

Holly Merkley's recovery had been overshadowed by the information Mycroft had sent along – especially once they had gotten in touch with Oxford. Goodnow was on a medical leave from his position with the university, and had been for the past seven months. He had been hospitalized for four months and then released back home, but on the condition that he continue out patient treatment and not return to work for several more weeks, at least.

One of his fellow professors had reported him missing when he'd gone for his weekly visit with Goodnow.

When the police combed his house, they found nothing gone but the man and his wallet, but not his credit cards. A large amount of cash had been withdrawn from his accounts over the previous few days, more than enough to get him to London and a place to stay for four days.

He had left behind everything else, including his clozapine. Medication for a paranoid schizophrenic, typically prescribed for patients who responded poorly to everything else.

It had most certainly not been a good evening.

"Okay but where?" Lestrade demanded. "He's not from here; he grew up in Newcastle."

"Sir," Donovan interrupted, looking up from her phone. Like the rest of them, she was exhausted, her features drawn, circles beginning to show under her eyes. Sherlock was more than feeling it; he had not stayed awake this long since before the accident and he was not certain how much longer he would last. He bit down on that thought; now there was no choice.

Lestrade, Sherlock and Anderson looked over at her as she set the phone down.

"That was Michaels, at the hospital. Holly Merkley regained consciousness long enough to confirm that it was Goodnow who took her and Nicholas."

"Did she say anything else?" Lestrade demanded.

Donovan nodded, looking grim.

"That he kept telling her that things needed to stay in line and not to let go of anything."

"In line, or in _the_ line?" Sherlock asked.

"In line is what Michaels said."

"What are you thinking?" Lestrade asked.

"That he's a paranoid schizophrenic," Sherlock replied. "Which means he has fantasies that someone is out to get him. He probably thinks he's protecting Nicholas, and himself, by getting his son back. Keeping him away from whoever he thinks his enemies are. But if he said keeping him in the line… keeping him in the family. Are we certain he has no ties to London?"

"We'll find out," Lestrade said.

"Wait, I don't understand," Anderson said. "Wouldn't the fertility companies keep someone like this from becoming a donor? Holmes, you said yourself you thought they had policies against this."

"And I'm not an expert in fertility company policies, having never availed myself of their services," Sherlock snapped. "Regardless, it doesn't matter. If Goodnow was not symptomatic when he became a donor and if family history was fuzzy or unknown – often the case for mental illnesses until recently – then they would have no way of verifying. Schizophrenia usually manifests itself in the late teens, but can be as delayed as the late twenties."

"No movement on his house from Oxford PD," a constable reported. "Newcastle is checking his aunt's place."

"He hasn't gone that far," Sherlock muttered. "Not if Merkley was still in the city with him this morning."

"Here," Donovan said, having made herself useful. "There is something. His father has flat registered to his name in Notting Hill."

"Where's his father now?" Lestrade demanded.

"Dead," Donovan said.

"He's there," Sherlock said. "It's safe for him – it belongs in the family. Something they wouldn't let go."

"Let's go," Lestrade said shortly. Sherlock snagged his coat, grateful that he had managed to check on John when he'd first returned to the Yard. The doctor was still asleep and Sherlock had not lingered in the barracks, not because he hadn't wanted to, but because Sam Waters was there, and the case still required his attention.

He wished for a strong cup of coffee, or perhaps something for the pain in his leg, but he ignored both desires, following Lestrade and the other detectives to the cars.

* * *

The flat was in a building that seemed uninhabited or unused, a tiny two-storey building on a short and narrow quiet side street. The SWAT team had arrived moments before the detectives and had the building efficiently surrounded, but reported no movement or noise that they could detect. Sherlock watched uneasily; there was a child in there, he was certain, but nothing to indicate it, no lights, no sound.

"Let me go in," he said in a low voice to Lestrade, watching the flat from the car.

"Don't be daft!" Lestrade snapped back. "We have no idea what it looks like in there."

"And he's a paranoid schizophrenic off his medications," Sherlock replied. "He thinks we're out to get him, which, point of fact, we are, but if we go in armed, he may shoot."

"And if you go in alone, he may shoot you," Lestrade replied. "No chance."

"You're putting Nicholas in jeopardy."

"I am putting no one in jeopardy if I can avoid it," Lestrade hissed. "That includes you. I bow to your expertise at solving crimes, but these people are trained for exactly this sort of situation."

"Let me go in with them, then," Sherlock insisted. "He needs an ally."

"What?"

"Let him think it's me," Sherlock replied. "I'm the best person to speak with him, and you know that."

Lestrade grunted, but relented.

"We're all going in, but the SWAT team first," he said. "If I see anything that I think it putting you in danger, I'm bringing it down. That includes you."

"What will you do? Shoot me?"

"Believe me, I relish the thought. Let's go."

They slipped from the car and were waved into place by the SWAT team. Sherlock eyed up their positions quickly; two officers were maintaining targets on the flat from the relative – very relative – shelter of the cars. Four more were crouched near the front door, while two had taken up positions on either end of the building, weapons aimed at the door. The team leader signalled for the four detectives to fall in behind the officers at the door.

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock could feel time stretched out, then the door shattered inward and the SWAT officers rushed in, shields up and weapons ready.

"Police! Daniel Goodnow, identify yourself!"

As the detectives followed them into the darkened building, Sherlock saw the two SWAT members who had been stationed near the building's corners move closer to the door, rifles still aimed. Someone threw the lights and there was Goodnow, standing over a small figure with curly hair, a pistol aimed at the child. Nicholas was curled on the floor, crying. The SWAT team fell back a step immediately.

"Weapons down now," Goodnow said in a calm, level voice. "You can't have him."

"Put the gun _down_ , Goodnow," one of the SWAT officers said.

Goodnow looked past them, locking his eyes with Sherlock's. The detective forced himself to gaze steadily back, for all that Goodnow looked collected on the outside, his eyes were dark and haunted. Not even Moriarty had eyes like that. This was not a man who had decided the rules did not apply to him and that he could run whatever game he pleased. This was a man who had drown and was never coming back.

"He said you'd come," Goodnow said.

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes," he replied, his voice curiously light and level. "He was right."

"I have to keep it in the line," Goodnow said. "That's what he told me. He's got it all figured, you know. Don't let anything get away."

"Never," Sherlock agreed, stepping forward. Lestrade caught his arm but Sherlock moved his hand firmly without taking his eyes from Goodnow. "You did well. You need to give me the gun now, though."

Goodnow's expression tightened.

"No! You're with them!"

"They're with me," Sherlock replied, keeping his voice easy, but raising his hands to show he was unarmed. "What did he tell you about me?"

"That you'd try to trick me. That you want things to get away."

Sherlock nodded. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that John would kill him if he knew what was going on right now. He hoped his husband would have the chance to tear a strip off of him later. He would take everything John threw at him, if it meant seeing him again.

"They want everything to get away, don't they?" Sherlock asked. "They always do."

"Yes," Goodnow hissed. "But we have to keep it close! There can't be any loose ends! Always know who's after you."

"I agree," Sherlock said. He was mildly surprised at how steady his voice was, but ignored that, focusing hard on the man in front of him. "Who's after you right now?"

"Everyone. The government. Doctors. They won't let me work. Police. You."

"I'm not after you," Sherlock said. "I wanted to make sure Nicholas was all right." He drew a deep breath. He could feel each beat of his heart, each pulse that it produced in his neck. "That's why were here. He sent us. He gave us a message for you."

Goodnow's hand wavered, as did the gun, over the child. Sherlock heard the shifting behind him in response to that, but forced himself not to move, not to react, even by blinking.

"What message? No, he said you'd try and trick me!"

"Only they would try and trick you," Sherlock assured him. His own breathing seemed remarkably loud, and he though he could physically feel the presence of the SWAT officers and detectives behind him. "He told me to tell you that you were right. But that we have a safe place for you. Where no one will find you, or Nicholas. So they can never have him back. But you need to give me the gun."

"No!" Goodnow shouted. "You're lying! You're always lying!"

"They've got a bug in the gun, Daniel!" Sherlock shouted back, his heart pounding in his ears. "They know where you are because of it! They're right behind us! Give it to me now, and they won't ever find you!"

Goodnow swung the gun toward Sherlock but the movement was enough for one of the SWAT officers, who fired as the other man's hand arced through the air. Sherlock threw himself to the ground, covering his head, but Goodnow went down, slumping backwards. Less than a moment later, someone was on top of the professor, pinning him down and disarming him. Another SWAT member was scooping up the sobbing child and Lestrade was collecting Sherlock from the scuffed and dusty wooden floor.

"Are you sodding insane?" Lestrade hissed but Sherlock could only laugh out of desperate relief, feeling momentarily giddy and light headed.

"He won't let anything get away," a voice from the floor said and Sherlock turned. Goodnow fixed his eyes on the detective and Sherlock felt a shudder run through him as the other man's gaze fell away.

"Come on," Lestrade said, steering Sherlock away. "John will have my head after tonight as it is."

An ambulance siren was already fast approaching, its piercing shrieks cutting through the evening air. Outside, a crowd of curious onlookers was already gathering and some of the SWAT members were setting up a perimeter. Lestrade sat Sherlock in the back seat of a car, leaving the door open for the breeze and fresh air, then radioed over to his people at the hospital, asking them to send Mike Merkley in a car.

Sherlock watched the SWAT members deal with the child, who was crying and clinging to them, but who didn't seem to be injured. The officers were checking the boy with what looked like practiced efficiency, as if they had to deal with traumatized children every day. Sherlock wondered how much this would affect the boy later on. How much would he remember? Anything?

And what would happen now that his medical history was known? Schizophrenia could be genetic, Sherlock knew. It was not a promising sign.

The ambulance pulled up to a quick halt and a team of paramedics jumped out. Lestrade met them immediately, giving instructions, and they hurried into the flat. Sherlock wondered if Goodnow was still alive – certainly he had seemed about to die when Lestrade had hauled Sherlock out, but perhaps he could be revived? Privately, the consulting detective thought it was pointless, but said nothing.

A few minutes later, one of the paramedics came back out, shaking her head, and Lestrade brought her over to the boy. They were close enough for Sherlock to hear the conversation; she wanted to get the boy loaded into the ambulance, but Lestrade wanted her to wait for Mike Merkley, who was already en route. A brief argument ensued and Sherlock lost interest again. He rubbed his face with his hands and wished they could go back to the Yard. He wanted to see John again.

Never let go.

He shook his head, but Moriarty was right about that. He never wanted to let go.

Sherlock paused, turning his gaze to the asphalt, unseeing.

No. Not never let go. Never let anything get away.

He pushed himself to his feet.

"Lestrade!" he shouted. Lestrade looked up and moved over, but Sherlock met him halfway.

"What?"

"Call the car Mike Merkley is in! Get them to go back!"

"What? Why?"

"Never let anything get away," Sherlock said urgently. "I was wrong – this wasn't about the boy. This was about Merkley. From the beginning. He saw Moriarty there. This is about him. Get them to turn around!"

Lestrade stared at him a moment, then dashed towards the car. Sherlock followed, but stopped, closing his eyes in denial when the dispatchers voice came over the radio.

"Shots fired. Officer down, repeat, officer down. All units in the vicinity of the A-40 west of Porchester Road please respond. Repeat, all units in the vicinity of the A-40 west of Porchester Road, please respond."


	7. Chapter 7

John awoke and struggled for a moment to place where he was. The bed was unfamiliar and the room was dark, so dark that his eyes adjusted much more slowly than normal. It was not his bed at home, and the texture of the darkness was all wrong.

His left shoulder throbbed and for a moment, he thought the weather was changing and causing the old wound to act up. He shifted, then hissed, and the memories poured back from that day – the previous day? He had no idea what time it was and the room gave no clues – no clocks, no windows. He had a vague memory of being woken up by someone he didn't know and being fed codeine. It had either worn off or wasn't quite enough, and it lacked the flying-high sensation of morphine.

He was resting on something that wasn't a pillow and he let his eyes dark upward, making out a figure in the dimness. It must have been early morning, John decided, but had no real idea. He was stiff from having slept so long and more than a little uncomfortable. His head was cradled in Sherlock's lap, something that John normally wouldn't mind; in fact, he very much enjoyed sleeping curled up with his husband, but something was very clearly amiss.

Sherlock had one hand resting lightly on John's right shoulder, the good one, and he was sitting up, back against the wall. His other arm was propped on the wall at the elbow, his left hand resting absently on his lips. From what John could see, his face was turned toward the same way, staring at it.

He was absolutely still.

That was what John had sensed. Even when asleep, John could usually feel a restive energy from Sherlock which he always attributed to how quickly the other man's mind worked, as if neural connections themselves were able to give off radiation. The only times John had seen him truly still were either in a very deep sleep, delta sleep, when the body was regenerating, or in the hospital when he'd been unconscious.

He'd never seen Sherlock that still while awake before.

John raised his head gently, grimacing at the flare of pain in his shoulder. It was difficult to tell, but he thought they were the only people in the barracks – he'd been able to place where they were now. None of the other bunks had the telltale rolling shadows that indicated they were occupied.

He lay his head back and looked up.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently. His voice sounded loud, and hoarse, in the stillness. Sherlock shifted then, looking down at John, but John could not see his gaze, only the movement of his head. "What is it?"

His husband didn't reply, but turned his face away again.

"Oh, Lord, the boy," John whispered. He could remember, hazily, someone telling him that they had found the woman, Holly Merkley. Had it been when he'd been awoken for codeine? He had no idea. The memories were murky, as if viewed under water.

"No," Sherlock replied in a quiet, even tone. "We found the boy. He's at the hospital with his mother."

John frowned, fighting awareness of pain in his shoulder. It was difficult to think, to concentrate, and he had to focus on words before speaking them.

"Then what?"

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and John wondered if he was being ignored. But then Sherlock told him, his voice unnaturally calm and without inflection. John listened in horror, closing his eyes, willing it not to be true.

A young police officer and Mike Merkley.

"I didn't see it," Sherlock said, in the same flat and emotionless tone.

"No one did," John replied, opening his eyes again and looking up through the darkness. He knew how little difference it would make.

Sherlock didn't respond, but kept staring at the wall. John was at a loss, wracking his brain for what to say or do, but it was difficult to think around the shock of what he'd just learned and the stabbing-needle pain in his shoulder. He closed his eyes, wishing he had more codeine, or even more morphine.

The door opening softly caught his attention and a block of light from the corridor spilled gently into the room across the floor, so that the figure who stepped in was only a silhouette for a moment.

"Doctor Watson, good to see you awake," a voice said quietly and the door eased shut somewhat. John recognized the young constable from the previous afternoon, Sam Waters. "Can I get you anything?"

John was about to ask for some painkillers, when Sherlock turned his head slightly, not quite looking at the other man.

"We need a car. I need to take John home."

Shock coursed through John; he had been expecting a row and then a trip to the hospital, but not this. Sherlock was not even thinking about the hospital, he could tell. John wasn't even convinced he needed it, but he knew Sherlock had been, and had not expected a reversal of opinion so quickly. And without merit.

"All right," Sam replied before John could say anything. "I'll get that sorted."

He left, closing them in the darkness again and John felt dizzy or uncertain, distracted by the pain. He wanted to take charge of the situation, but couldn't focus or find the right words.

Sherlock said nothing, staring at the shadows, silent and still.


End file.
